Hello chaps. Still here.

The weather is terrible. I have gone from sweating about the place to wearing jumpers and putting the heating on.

I had my hair did on Friday. I am back to being pink again. I don’t feel pink at the moment but I am hoping to fake it to make it. Jenn did a bang up job and it looks great, it’s just my insides that don’t feel pink. It is very nice not to have two and a half inches of dark roots and a fringe I cut with a pair of nail scissors in sheer frustration though. That’s very satisfying.

My migraine is on the way out. Some days it doesn’t appear at all. Others it has taken to lurking at the edges of my brain and just delivering the odd, sharp stab to remind me who is boss. I have stopped doing yoga again for a bit as that seemed to aggravate things. This suggests it is stress related as I tend to store a lot of stress in my neck and shoulders and as I release it with the yoga it does like to make its presence felt, so I am having another small holiday from Adriene until I get back on an even keel.

I have done a fair bit of walking in the last few days though, so I’m not entirely in a vegetative state.

On Saturday I went to London with Andrea to see my friend Claire and go to Greenwich to see an exhibition at The Painted Hall. We were a month late for the exhibition, which is about right for me and my adventures, but we did get to see the Painted Hall. This is wonderful if you like fat women wearing bath towels and showing their nipples and kings crushing their vanquished foes under their foppish shoes while being gazed at adoringly by fat putti. I do not like this at all, I’m afraid. It is my second least favourite style of painting after brown Dutch landscapes. This is why I rarely go to the National Gallery as it is teeming with this kind of thing and it’s just not my bag. I’m more of a Jackson Pollock kind of girl.

Having said that, it was good to be in London, the weather was nice and we walked for miles and miles. Eventually we washed up at the Olympic Park, which I haven’t been to before, so that was quite good fun. We wanted to find The Line, which is a sculpture trail, but we failed miserably. It seemed that art was not at all for us on Saturday.

On leaving Andrea’s house, where I had parked my car, on Saturday evening, my sat nav decided to go on strike and I got hopelessly lost and ended up weeping in a cul-de-sac in Pinner, which is, I think, something we can all relate to. In the end I rang Jason, who has a tracker thing on my phone and who knows how to work technology, so he tied it all together and talked me through extracting myself from the byways of London and back onto the M1. It was quite the adventure and I am not going to live in Pinner when I grow up. Sorry Elton.

On Sunday I went to a local car boot sale with Tallulah and her girlfriend. It was my second early start and this time we had a nice, fine rain that wets you through to accompany us as we picked our way through the sheep shit and people desperately trying to keep their stock dry. There was virtually no treasure to be found, although I did pick up some Victorian glass for mum and dad, which we delivered to them after the car boot sale and bagged ourselves some breakfast while we dried off.

I managed to sell some things at the weekend which was jolly good as I am flat broke. I staggered to the post office with them today before going on a mammoth walk with my friend Kim. We trekked around the park several times, putting the world to rights. With perfect timing, we got home just as the heavens opened.

I have done lots of therapy writing which was as grim and miserable as ever. Should anyone ever discover this great work they will think I was the least fun person ever in the world with the most miserable childhood in the world. I am not and did not, but I guess the whole point is that I don’t want to dissect all the nice times I had and talk about how great everything is. That’s not the stuff that wakes me at three in the morning in a muck sweat or stops me functioning as a human being. I sometimes find myself writing stuff and feeling really guilty and that I should be making more of an effort to be perky. Then I remind myself that it is my constant expectation that I must be jolly and perky that got me here in the first place and I carry on churning out words that make me cry and give me lots of things to share with my therapist. Because of COVID and other life stuff I haven’t seen the poor woman for nearly five weeks. I am seeing her tomorrow afternoon. I may invest in a box of tissues to save her having to break out the big guns.

Reading wise I finished the Anthony Horowitz and the Talk Art book both of which I thoroughly enjoyed. I’m now reading Oliver Postgate’s (inventor of Bagpuss)autobiography, which is absolutely delightful in many, many ways. I’ve started a memoir by Nancy Spain who was a deeply eccentric celebrity chef, journalist and bon viveur back in the Sixties and who I came across when my mum gifted me her wildly and inadvertently funny recipe book. So far I am also enjoying this immensely.

Oscar seems to be finding his rhythm with the garden in the last few days. He has failed to break any more tools or to dig up any plants I actually wanted to keep and the garden is looking rather good at the moment. He found he was actually in credit today so immediately went out to the cinema and for dinner with his friends, thus meaning he is back in hock and the garden will receive more attention in the next few days. I should be grateful he is so gregarious. It means quite a lot of stuff I was putting off is now getting done, which is jolly.

With regard to my ongoing tussle with cats and carpets, we are almost sorted except on Sunday when I woke up to find all the cat boxes brimming with wee and Derek crapping on the carpet. Ronnie P has also taken to using the boxes now, which is annoying as the boys were going outside, which made life a little easier, but no. That’s not allowed and we must all join in. Some days I feel like having a go myself. I might as well.

I’ve almost got rid of the smell, which is good, except the carpets here are so old and grim anyway, that when it’s damp, if you don’t have the heating on, they just smell old and fusty regardless of whether anyone may have pissed on them or not. The more I live with carpets, the more convinced I am of their utter pointlessness. I hate carpets. When I have my own house again I am having no carpets at all, anywhere and investing only in magnificent rugs and corks for the cats’ arses.

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